Black Flames of the Mind
by VTCentaurea
Summary: Some feelings are impossible to completely purge. Love just so happens to be the one our favorite consulting detective is having a difficulty with.


The lights were flipped off, but the room was anything but dark. Crap telly was turned to an almost silent volume in order to hear the soft crackling of flames. They caused shadows to which a pondering detective usually directed his conversation.

In the other room, a bustling could be heard. Then a crash followed by a curse, soon to be followed by a doctor emerging from his room, flying to their coffee table and throwing the loose papers around the room to find something...

Friday's always seemed to go this way.

And all Sherlock found he was capable of doing was very predictable. He closed his eyes to the world around him and wandered back to his mind palace.

The doors closed behind him, leaving John to look for those 'blasted tickets' to the show he'd planned to take Sarah to in a matter of minutes, and the ring he'd be taking with him. Leaving Mrs. Hudson to fuss about their flat in an attempt to clean his 'messes', then claim she was not their cleaning lady. And lastly, leaving Lestrade, who'd decided to text with a case not moments before.

The place he entered was comforting as it always was. The emotions he kept locked in the dungeon surged up to meet him before he could reject them, but as he concentrated on the fire in the middle of the floor, he opened his arms to them, if only for a moment. He knew before he faced it that the all-too-real sound came from the fire in the flat, but in this moment, Sherlock allowed himself to believe this was the world in which he lived.

This room, like the many others of his palace, was pitch black(other than the roaring flames), but it still pulsed with the important information he had placed within it. As he neared the embers, he saw remnants of the once deemed useless thoughts, facts, and feelings.

The smile that laced his lips was bittersweet. It was time. His arms dropped the emotions that attempted to hold on, but fell at small shakes. All but one, that is. This one was attached, but not to the arms the others had fell from. This one was holding on tightly to his chest, right over his pounding heart.

For a moment, he lifted his hand to hold it close, feeling it's comfort and pain shoot all throughout his being one last time. "John," His voice cracked at the one word, leaning to kiss it before detaching it's claws from his chest. "Goodbye." And with that, the consulting detective through it into the flames, but their warmth did not reach him. Neither did the chill as he slowly came back to 221 B.

"Sherlock! I don't have time for this…" John's voice rang out, like a hive of furious bees. It took the one in question to realize he'd said his flat mate's name aloud.

"Don't forget your wallet." The excuse for his slip-up came out sounding cold, but the thought of it made the corners of his lips twitch.

"Right… Wish me luck." The next second, Doctor Watson was gone. Both from their shared flat, and Sherlock's heart forever.

John took another mad dash from one covered shop to another, trembling from each icy rain drop that touched his skin. Of course his night ended like this.

_ Sarah had met at the expected time, beaming because for the first time on a date, he'd arrived when he said though he was panting between words. _

_It wasn't till they were sitting with their food in front of them that the black box in his pocket started to carry some weight. He cared about her, that much was true. She put up with both him and his flat mate and was the only one that still had a fond smile for him after being kidnapped the night before. She was his escape when the insufferable detective found his way into the doctor's last nerve. However, it was also true that she would not wait for him forever. No woman in her right mind would wait years for a man who had stood them up for their friend, even after the endless apologies. _

221B was now in sight, but in the midst of this dash, John's right leg stumbled into a deep puddle, the rest of him following suit. The wind rushed out of him with a grunt. Now he half-walked half-stumbled to the door, panting in the cold air that seemed to only make the pain in his chest worse.

His hands trembled as they tried to fit the small silver key into it's slot, but after two minutes past, the door clicked and opened. It was closed just as quickly, but as the soldier closed the door behind him, his knees buckled and sent him collapsing to the floor. Sweet, warm air finally filled his desperate lungs as he closed his eyes and subconsciously clenched a fist.

_The waiter had taken their food right on time, but as his fingers had brushed over the black box, they'd frozen. In the opposite pocket of his trousers came another feeling. An extended vibrate that could only mean one thing: a text from Sherlock. For the first time that day, his heart skipped a beat, but he did not dare look at it in fear of upsetting the woman across from him. _

_Sarah had absentmindedly commented on the gloomy weather to cease his silence, but after a grunt (not unlike the one he'd made in falling) was all she got in response, she was quiet once more as well. _

_The possibilities of Sherlock's message played in John's mind till he suddenly found it impossible to give another thought to the question he'd wanted to ask this night. _

"_Answer him, John." A voice had come across the table, carrying a hint of her annoyance. How she had known, he could not tell, but he shook his head and stood, insisting to walk her home instead. There was no way he could return the feelings to their night and, though John Watson was persistent, he was no idiot. _

"There's your bloody sugar." John stormed into the room, throwing the bag onto the counter and glaring daggers at the man laying on the couch. It wasn't Sherlock's fault he'd fallen, or that Sarah was now agitated with him. Yet, seeing the detective lying there as innocent as ever made him the perfect target of John's frustration.

What did not make matters any better, was when Sherlock gave no indication of hearing the words at all. "Sherlock…" John raised a hand to clench the bridge of his nose.

"What?" The consulting detective snapped, and the doctor recoiled as if it was a physical slap. Yes, he still felt the frustration, but now a curious concern crept into his voice as well.

"What the-"

"Why?" Sherlock's eyes snapped open. John might have been used to the expressions his friend gave, but seeing the cold gray eyes made a shiver run down his spine.

"Why what?" The irritation in his tone had long since seeped out, but John still kept his stance up, not wanting to give Sherlock the satisfaction of knowing one look could send all those negative feelings running of him like the droplets of rain that fell from his hair.

"Why didn't you ask?" Sherlock clarified with a roll of his eyes in the why-are-you-so-daft way only he could accomplish.

John's next intake of breath sounded like a hiss. "I'm going to put some tea on." He turned to their kitchen, praying Sherlock would not care enough to press the topic. Naturally, events would not go as he wanted.

"John?" The detective raised a hand to his chest and scowled. It would seem one claw was still latched.

John spun to meet him with sharp eyes, misinterpreting the scowl. "Don't you have a case you should be working on?"

"Shouldn't you be at Sarah's?" There it was. Hurt flashed across the doctor's face before he made quite a loud huff and stormed up the stairs, leaving the pot sitting where he'd been filling it.

While he knew he should regret the words, it took what seemed like hours before Sherlock found himself climbing the stairs. He'd emptied these emotions, thrown them in the black flames as easily as he would any other. Why was it that the moment those blue eyes caught his, that this emotion had crawled bad out of that fire and clutched onto him helplessly?

He raised a hand to knock on the door, but his hand came in contact with the knob and opened the door without permission. It would not have been given, anyway. The room was dark, but he was used to it. Instead of flipping a light on, he scanned for his flat mate and found John lying on the bed, eyes clenched shut in an attempt to act as if he was asleep.

The consulting detective's logic screamed for him to leave, to let John be in the sanctuary of his room in peace. But for the first time, logic ceased to matter.

"John?" The doctor stayed silent, though the corner of his mouth twitched, but not into a smile. "You're not sleeping, so there is no point in keeping up the childish façade of-" His mouth clamped shut as John's eyes flew open. 'Not good.' They stated curtly.

"John," He began again, talking much slower than before. "I know that you are familiar with my sociability, I recognize my earlier comments may have-" While he spoke, the other man had begun to sit up in the bed and was now leaning forward.

"Sherlock, are you… are you trying to apologize? You're a real git, you know that?" The words were in a tone the detective had heard many times before. That edge between being upset and humorous.

"I don't believe my actions were that-"

"What are you really on about? Has-has _he_…?" John said, all traces of both emotions gone.

"Hm? No, no. Still underground and hiding. No new cases either."

"On a Friday like this? I'd be sure there would be _something_ that you'd find interesting. It's awful out-"

Curiosity piped at Sherlock once more and this time, there was no where that John could run from the question. "Why didn't you ask her?"

Again, he gave a quiet gasp at the question. Still a touchy subject, then."Sarah? I had to get your su-"

"I did not ask for any. Why didn't you?"

"I suppose if I don't answer, you'll keep badgering me till neither of us gets any sleep." John groaned tiredly, though really he felt as awake as ever and the other knew it. "It wasn't the right…time." '_Person_', he mentally corrected, and again the taller man understood. "What was provoking you when I walked in?"

It was just to change the conversation, and both parties knew it, but neither were going to comment on it.

"The annoyances the next few days would contain, what with your moving into Sarah's: the packing, the nagging, all the noise." He raised a hand to his head for dramatic effect before dropping it and avoiding John's intense gaze.

"I wasn't leaving, Sherlock." The words were warm and his gaze turned softer. To keep it from sounding like the confession it was, however, he continued. "I never could, you'd have the flat destroyed in a matter of seconds. Ms. Hudson would have my head for it."

The look his friend gave him was worth every single moment that had gone wrong that day. The wonder, like overwhelming joy, radiating from just one smile.

"Well, um… I should let you sleep, you were just saying-"

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

The soldier hadn't known what he wanted to say. '_I love you'_? Perhaps another time. Because it was true. He'd cared for Sarah, but when he thought love, he thought of the tall, slender man before him.

So as he gave a smile he swore only to give the one standing in his doorway, he spoke all he'd ever wanted to tell Sherlock in just one simple word. "Goodnight."

_~Fin~_


End file.
